But Thinking Makes It So
by Anderida
Summary: The boys, a beast, then beer and debate; leading to confession, concern, contemplation and care-taking. Wincest (it's fiction guys). Set early but no specific time and no spoilers. Rated for Dean's language and – oh, did I mention? – Wincest!
1. Chapter 1

**But thinking makes it so Ch1**

_A/N: The boys, a beast, then beer and debate; leading to confession, concern, contemplation and care-taking. Wincest (it's fiction guys). Set early but no specific time and no spoilers. Rated for Dean's language and - oh, did I mention? - Wincest! Five chapters – one a day if you're good!_

_**Disclaimer:** This story is mine: Supernatural isn't; the M'kelebazantu is mine: Dean isn't, dammit!_

"_There is nothing either good or bad but thinking makes it so_." Hamlet, Act 2, Scene 2

**Chapter One – The Winchester Debate**

"Man, that was close!" Dean said as he fell into the Impala.

"For a moment I thought we wouldn't make it," agreed Sam as he folded himself into the front passenger seat, punctuating with a slam of the car door. "At least it was a daylight job. I wouldn't have wanted to chase _that_ around after dark."

"No, but without the cover of darkness that thing was seriously fugly! Were those sticky-up things _feathers_? And the stench of that thing … what was it now?" Dean asked his brother, knowing that he would know because … well, he remembers shit like that.

"M'kelebazantu. God knows how it got out of The Congo and turned up here. We importing monsters now? I'd worry there might be more out there but they're nearly extinct in their natural habitat. I felt bad about ganking it. We should have at least tried to repatriate it." Sam sighed heavily.

"You felt bad about killing it?" Dean sounded incredulous as he started the motor.

"Well, it doesn't usually rip people to shreds on manicured lawns, Dean. It usually hangs out in West African grasslands. Its natural food source is wild pig, forest hogs, warthogs, that sort of thing. Although, there are rumours that they've been going for antelope recently, you know, like the okapi, puku and kudu ..."

"Yeah, puku and kudu, 'course," Dean mumbled, rolling his eyes, oblivious to the irony as he pulled the Impala onto the road away from the dead, now cremated, M'kelebazantu.

"Some of those species," Sam continued, shooting his brother an exasperated look, "are endangered, so maybe someone thought to ship a M'kelebazantu here before it did any more damage to the local fauna?"

"Extraordinary rendition on its arse," Dean mused, "that worked well."

"But it didn't deserve, you know, the ending we gave it," Sam said with a sigh as he rubbed his neck trying to get his muscles to relax before another headache set in.

"Sam, it nearly ate the entire contents of that gated retirement community."

"Yeah, but it didn't mean to," Sam explained lamely, "it was just doing what came naturally. It was confused, cut off from its normal food supply and out of its comfort zone; more than 5,000 miles outside it's comfort zone. "

"You're kidding me, right, Sam? We spend our lives outside of any known comfort zone but we don't chow down on retirees with pacemakers who dress for golf when they're not on the links."

"Just saying," Sam shrugged, sounding not quite half his 23 years.

"Well, I'm just saying that just 'cause this m'ukelele-batu-wotist was doing what comes naturally it doesn't make it right."

"Not from your perspective maybe, but for the _M'kelebazantu," _Sam stressed the name, "it _was_ the right thing – for its survival. Nature equipped it with jaws that hinge back like that so it can feed itself on giant hogs and, um, people, it seems. Like a giraffe has an elongated neck to reach foliage high in the canopy of Acacia trees."

"Giraffes don't turn golfing widows into real widows and leave bits of the former hubby all over the landscaping. That's just wrong, dude."

"It depends on your concept of right and wrong."

"No Sam, it really doesn't. Right is right. Wrong is wrong. And eating people is wrong. End of!" Dean said shaking his head at his brother's ludicrous contention.

"It's not that simple, Dean."

"Um, yeah it is!"

"The concept of right and wrong is a construct of human consciousness that has no parallel in nature," Sam informed his brother.

"That was English, was it, dude?"

"I'm just saying that right and wrong don't have absolute values. My idea of what's right and your idea may be very different."

"Like your idea of English?"

"Dean, you can scoff …"

"Scoff? Who says 'scoff'? Sam, you're beginning to worry me."

"Well, if you don't want to have a sensible conversation …" Sam mumbled.

"You're the one that's short on 'sensible' here. I heard 'foliage' and 'tree canopy', when 'leaves on high up branches' would have got your point across just as well. And what's with the 'construct of consciousness' stuff? You're sounding a bit too much like 'Sam' even for you, Sam."

"I'm just trying to explain that not everybody agrees with what you or I may think is 'right' or 'wrong'. And nature doesn't give a shit either way."

"Yeah, I got that. We wouldn't have a job if nature had a better handle on right and wrong; good and bad."

Sam nodded solemnly at this.

"So," Dean asked, a moment later, "that bikers' bar on the road into town looked a bit of a dive, even by my standards, so you want I should swing past the gas station and get some beers to have back at the motel?"

"Yeah, sounds good. Besides, I don't really want to sit in a bar reeking of M'kelebazantu. So, back to the motel, then a shower, some beers and order in some pizza?"

"Sounds like a plan," Dean agreed as he put his foot on the accelerator a little more heavily at the thought of pizza. And a side of chicken wings, perhaps.

Their conversation about whether the M'kelebazantu was justified in its consumption of a sizeable swathe of the residents of 'Happy Briars Community for Retired Busy People' continued all the way to the gas station and then back to the motel. Nor was it deflected by two showers and a pizza delivery.

Early on, the brothers found common ground in their agreement with the action of the authorities in declaring the deaths as the work of an exotic disease. When in doubt blame something non-indigenous, because people readily accept that. An official from the Centres for Disease Control had been wheeled out to tell the public that a particularly virulent pathogen was shutting down bodily functions and then accelerating decomposition, causing gases to build rapidly in the body cavity with explosive results.

The brothers agreed that this explanation was an adequate cover for the body parts strewn around the planted areas of the pensioners' enclave, and an infectious disease story was always good for keeping away prying eyes.

But even as the brothers began to mellow, commensurate with the beer consumed, they still could not agree on the essence of right and wrong; good and bad.

"Nature doesn't have a view on good or bad, Dean. Something happens or it doesn't."

"So nature thinks that the M'ukelele- thingy is right to go round slaughtering retirees?" Dean asked sceptically

"M'kelebazantu. It's not related to any Hawaiian musical instrument! Basically, nature's okay with whatever happens. It doesn't consider anything to be 'right' or to be 'wrong'. Everything just does what it needs to do to survive. From single-celled plants to M'kelebazantu. There are no value judgements in nature. It's only humans that put the right/wrong construct on things."

"So, we're in the wrong for wanting to stop it?" Dean asked, his voice heavy with disbelief.

"No, I'm saying that without applying conscious thought to classify something as being either right or wrong, it is neither. It just 'is'. Shakespeare has Hamlet say, '_There is nothing either good or bad but thinking makes it so_'."

"Trust you to quote dead poets …" Dean grumbled, checking his empty pizza box for any leftover bits of burnt cheese.

"Dead playwright," Sam corrected amiably.

"Whatever. So if no-one knows a … monster, say, is killing people then that makes it okay?"

"No, Dean, and you know that isn't what I'm saying. In nature, the things that happen are just events, deeds, actions that are 'possible'. Physically, scientifically possible. Supernaturally possible even, I mean, just because we don't understand the mechanism doesn't prevent something from happening. But only our thoughts can see those actions as being either good or bad.

"I'm sorry, Sam, but some things are just plain wrong and that's an end of it," Dean argued, burping loudly as if to emphasise his point, as he lolled lazily against the headboard of his bed.

"No, Dean, you may _hypothesise_ or even unequivocally _believe_ that some things are inherently wrong, but that's not the same thing as them actually being wrong _per se_," Sam said from where he sat on the sofa facing Dean, waving his bottle of Bud back and forth.

"D'you do that on purpose? If you dropped the college talk once in a while then perhaps you'd get laid more often," Dean observed candidly.

"Drop the … Hey, what'd you mean, 'get laid more often'. What's one thing got to do with the other … and why is it any of your business?"

"Sammy, Sammy, Sammy, I only want what's best for you and, well, let's face it, you haven't got lucky since …" Dean, may have been slightly inebriated but he still had enough wits about him to baulk at mentioning Jessica's name.

"Hey, no fair!" Sam complained. "Just because I don't wanna rut like bunnies with every chick I meet like you do …"

"Dude, _bunnies_ don't _rut_ and they don't do it with _chicks_. You're the college geek who just gave me a lecture on nature – you oughta know shit like that."

"That's so not the point. You know nothing about my sex life."

"See that's where you're wrong, little bro," Dean said, sitting up a little straighter and pointing his beer at his companion. "See, I know you wanna pretend that you can take it or leave it, that being celibate isn't an issue for you, but I know different, dude. You're aching for it."

"I'm what?" Sam spluttered, dribbling beer down his chin and wiping it quickly with the back of his hand.

"Aching for it, bro, and you know it." Dean's smirk at his brother's discomfort was undisguised.

"That's just wrong. You know shit!"

"Really, Sammy? You gonna sit there and tell me you don't wanna get balls deep with some hot chick sometime soon?"

Sam's neck began to redden. Even in the paltry light given off by the nightstand lamp, the only light they'd bothered to switch on, Dean could easily see the redness travel up Sam's throat until his cheeks could have guided Santa's sleigh.

"I hit a nerve there, didn't I, huh, Sammy?" Dean quizzed, sounding self-satisfied with a dusting of smug sprinkles.

"But not the nerve you think," Sam muttered to himself.

"What's that?" Dean asked with unabashed curiosity.

"Nothing," Sam said quickly. "Look, Dean, you don't know anything about me and what I want."

"I know you need to get laid!" Dean popped the cap off another bottle.

"Jeez, Dean, I'm not like you."

"Meaning?"

"Just because I don't engage in end-to-end one night stands, like you, doesn't make me desperate to get laid." Sam rubbed his neck again and took another swig from his bottle. Somewhere in his brain he knew that beer was not the way to ward off a pending headache. But another part of his brain had said, 'who gives a fuck?' and was running the show.

"You say that like regular sex is a bad thing," Dean whined.

"But that's all it is, Dean, all your hook ups. It's just sex."

"And?"

"Don't you get it, Dean? There's so much more than sex out there. There's real intimacy – the sort that comes from really sharing yourself with someone."

"Intimacy? Check! Sharing? Check!"

"No, Dean, not the sort of intimacy that involves the sharing of bodily fluids. It's a psychological intimacy, an emotional intimacy if you like, more than a physical one." Sam shook his head sadly, which reminded him of the tense muscles in his neck and his hand went back up to massage the spot.

"Where's the fun in that?" Dean asked dryly.

"I'm sorry for you, Dean."

"_You_'re sorry for _me_? Dude, you've got that arse-backwards."

"No, Dean, it's true. You've never been in love. Being in love, and having an intimate relationship with someone is the best feeling in the world. But it's more than just sex. And I feel sorry that you haven't ever experienced that."

"Hey, keep yer damn pity. I do just fine," Dean blustered. "At least I get some on a regular basis. When was the last time you got laid? C'mon, Sam, out with it. 'Fess up."


	2. Chapter 2

**But thinking makes it so Ch2**

A/N: This is for Zed's Dead, with thanks. *g*

**Chapter Two. – Confession is Good for the Soul**

When Sam said nothing and just stared at the brown, stain-mottled carpet, Dean pushed, but his tone was gentler now. "C'mon, Sam, you can tell me. When was the last time you got laid? Was it Jess?"

Sam didn't look up but just shook his head cautiously, though the careful movement was not because of his tight neck muscles this time.

"Who, then? Not that top-heavy girl who waited table at that diner off the I-35? I told you that fucked up hunt for that non-existent werewolf wouldn't be a total waste. So, it paid to hang round there for a couple of days, huh?"

Sam said nothing but he shook his head dejectedly as his head fell forward and his shoulders rolled together.

"Okay, so not the stacked waitress. But there has been someone … since … since Stanford?"

Sam's head gave a tiny movement of assent, looking like a barely animated emoticon for 'misery'.

"Sam? What's up?" Concern and confusion were carried in Dean's voice.

The carpet still held Sam's attention.

Dean tried another tack.

"You're right then, Sammy. I thought you hadn't pulled since, well, you know. You've been, well I wanna say 'discrete' but the word 'secretive' comes to mind, 'cause I gotta tell you, I had no clue you'd hooked up. Good for you, bro. But couldn't you have shared? I mean, shared the information, not shared the chick – although if she was up for it …"

"Wasn't a chick."

Sam's voice was so low Dean nearly didn't hear him, and even though he did hear, it took a while to process the words, and even then he thought he had misheard.

"Um, wanna run that past me again, Sammy?" Dean said quietly, before taking a large swig of beer.

Sam looked up then and fixed his brother with a look that dared him to look away.

"I said, 'it wasn't a chick', Dean. I was with a dude."

When Dean just blinked at him, Sam said tersely, "I let a guy fuck me. That any clearer for you?"

Dean stared, his mouth dropped open and then … he laughed. A raucous, belly laugh that had him wiping tears from his eyes.

"Oh my god, I fell for that. You Punk'd me good, Sam!" Dean chuckled, trying to get a grip on himself so he didn't spill his beer as he took yet another pull from the bottle.

Sam was looking back at the floor again. Dean raised his eyebrows.

"Sammy?" he said quietly.

Sam looked up briefly but then fixed his eyes on the lamp on the nightstand next to his brother as he explained quietly, "This is why I didn't tell you, Dean. It's a big joke to you. It's not a joke to me."

Dean's eyes strained out of their sockets. He swallowed audibly.

"You serious? You're not shitting me?" he asked hoarsely.

"Not something I talk about, much less joke about," Sam replied sadly.

"Hey, I'm sorry, bro, didn't mean to make light or anything," Dean said quietly, "but so I can get this straight – um – sorry, dude, poor choice of word, I mean, you're gay then, yeah? But what about Jess?"

"If you have to label stuff then I guess I'm bi. Hence, Jess. Although I think maybe I was using Jess to convince myself that I could be … I dunno, 'normal' I guess."

"Normal? You mean straight?"

Sam ignored the question and just said quietly. "I loved her, I did, Dean."

"Yeah, I know, man, and I'm so sorry about what happened. If only …"

"No!" Sam cut in quickly, angrily almost. "No, what happened wasn't right, it wasn't fair but it happened, and there's nothing any of us could have done about it. I can't go there, Dean."

"Sammy?"

"Look, Jess isn't germane to this conversation," Sam said sadly. "I've just told you I like to fuck men, and be fucked by men."

"Ouch, that's a bit harsh," Dean said holding his hands up, "so you like guys as well as girls. So what?"

"So what? So what?" Sam said miserably, "So, I've lied to you. Kept it from everyone. I've tried so hard to ignore my feelings."

"Why?"

Sam looked over at his brother and saw genuine puzzlement written on his face.

"Why?" Sam moaned, "Because I'm ashamed. Because with all the shit we have to deal with I just want something that's 'normal'. Something that I don't have to struggle with, struggle against."

A tear threatened to fall and Sam backhanded it away ferociously.

"I don't get it, Sam," Dean said as he scooted down to the end of his bed, nearer his brother, "why would you feel ashamed? I mean that's a bit of a kick in the teeth for all the gay and lesbian people out there. It's not like _you_ to see same sex attraction as something to be ashamed off."

"No, of course not, I don't. No, not in general. Um, maybe just when it comes to me, I guess." Sam sounded wretched.

"But why wouldn't you tell me? Sam, I'm your brother, you can tell me stuff. You know that, right?"

Sam managed a weak smile.

"Yeah, Dean. But you don't always make it easy."

"Shit, Sam, I'm sorry. I hope you don't feel ashamed because of something I might say or do? You know you've got nothing to be ashamed about don't you?"

Sam swallowed hard and mumbled, "It's not about y … not about anything you've done or said, Dean."

"Well, where's the problem, dude?" Dean stretched his hand out to squeeze Sam's shoulder, in what he felt was a gesture of solidarity, but as his finger brushed against Sam's shirt, the younger brother flinched and sat back, out of Dean's reach.

"Sammy?" Dean's voice conveyed his hurt and his worry.

"Sorry, Dean," Sam whispered, "it's not you. I'm having trouble getting my head around this. I never intended to tell you. To tell anyone."

"Jeez, Sam, it's not like you killed anyone. This isn't like you. So you sleep with guys. So what?"

Dean had to strain to hear what Sam said next.

"It's not normal."

"Pardon me?"

Sam just gave him the briefest of glances to convey, 'you heard' better than any words.

"Well, Sammy, I never took you for a coward," Dean said, his tone clipped, his eyes blazing, pointing the neck of his empty beer bottle threateningly at the younger man.

"What?"

"You heard me. I called you a coward."

Dean wasn't about to back down, he wasn't going to let Sam crawl back into his pit of denial and self-pity.

"You don't understand …"

"What don't I understand? I know you don't believe that '_it's not normal'_ crap you've just given me. That's not you talking. So, what am I not getting here, Sam?

Sam continued his silent carpet inspection.

"You think I'm that stupid, Sam, that I don't see the problems gay people face? Do you think I don't know that you don't need another element in your life that sets you apart from Joe Average and his picket-fence existence? I get that, I truly get that. But I just didn't think you'd be such a coward about it.

"You know, when you went off to Stanford, I was hurt. I was fucking destroyed, Sam. Except for one thing; you got a shot at a life away from all this hunting shit. That was all I needed Sam; to know you were okay, were happy. To know you were gonna have a life.

"But it went tits up, as usual. Can't change that. But I don't get how you can sit there and look like someone shot your dog because you're bisexual. So fucking what?"

"It's not right, Dean, not normal."

"What the fuck, Sam? How can you say that? Haven't we sorted this already? You're the brains here. You should know, hell, you _do_ know better. 'Normal', whatever that means, is overrated. You know that being gay or bi isn't about any of that shit. What the hell is going on in that head of yours?"

Dean stomped over to the nightstand to open yet another beer, coming back to hand Sam another too. Sam took the bottle but didn't make eye contact. Dean sat down heavily on the end of the bed looking sadly at his little brother.

"Sammy," he tried again, his anger gone, "being bi is no big deal. I can't believe you're so screwed up about this."

"It's wrong," Sam mumbled, holding the unopened cold beer to the back of his neck.

"What? Um, no! It's not wrong. Sam, where are you getting this from? Is it because Dad wouldn't approve? 'Cause screw him!"

When Sam remained mute, Dean stretched and sighed. "Okay, Sam, I'm going out on a limb here, and I'm guessing there's something else you're not telling me."

He waited a beat for some indication that he was right and thought he detected a tiny nod of his brother's shaggy locks.

"Well here's what I think," Dean continued, his voice low and intense, "you shouldn't concern yourself with what other people think, with what Dad thinks or even what I think.

"We've just had this long conversation about the rights and wrongs of things that happen. And it's like you didn't listen to anything you were telling me. One minute you're all, '_there's no right or wrong_' and now you're all, '_it's wrong, Dean, it's not normal_'," Dean mimicked his brother in an exaggerated manner before continuing, "but I know you don't believe that. What's going on, Sammy?"

"I can't tell you," Sam moaned miserably, slumping even further, putting his elbows on his knees and holding his head in his hands.

"God, Sam, you gotta tell me. I can't help 'less I know what's going on in that noggin of yours." Dean got up and sat down on the sofa next to Sam, who visibly flinched. "Sammy, please."

"I can't," Sam whimpered.

"You can. You have to," Dean pleaded. "You're scaring me, Sam."

Sam raised his head slightly and looked sideways at Dean. His face was wet with tears as he whispered, "Please don't make me tell you."

"I won't make you do anything you don't want to, Sam, you know that. But I'm really worried about you now. This isn't like you. Look, whatever it is, you can tell me. I'll be like Nature about whatever it is – no judgement. No right or wrong. Just tell me. I wanna help, Sammy."

Dean reached out and squeezed Sam's shoulder and this time Sam didn't move away.

"You promise that whatever I say," there was a note of desperation in Sam's voice, "you won't …think badly of me? You won't hate me?"

"Jeez, Sam, you gotta tell me. And, no, there's nothing you could say would make me hate you. For fuck's sake, Sammy, you know that."

"Okay."

Sam pulled himself away from his brother and stood up. He moved to the window of their cheap motel room and stared out through the chink in the shabby curtains into the darkened parking lot beyond, facing away from Dean still perched on the sofa.

"Dean," Sam said quietly, "when I went to Stanford I had hoped to sort some stuff out. I knew I was attracted to men as well as women and, you're right, I didn't relish having to explain that to Dad. And it was bound to come out sooner or later, even given Dad's less than attentive parenting skills. But, I don't have a problem with being bi, and that had nothing to do with me moving away.

"I wanted out of the monster goo, the salt and burn, and the exorcism crap, that's true, and I wanted a chance at a 'normal' life. But, mostly I had to get away so I could save the relationship I had with you, Dean."

"Save it?" Dean snapped. "By not talking to me for two years? That makes no sense, not even for you. But why, why couldn't you stay and …"

"Dean," Sam interrupted brusquely, "I couldn't stay because I would have ruined everything. Everything between us."

"Yer lost me, Sammy."

Sam whirled round, "Dean, I love you! I know it's wrong. I've tried to stop. But I still feel the same as before I left for Stanford. I. Love. You."

"Um, right back at you, Sammy. We're family."

"My god, Dean, how dense are you? I _love_ you. The kind of love brothers shouldn't have for one another. Get it now?"

Dean's mouth dropped open. Then he managed to close it, but it fell open again.


	3. Chapter 3

**But thinking makes it so Ch3**

_This is for ktdog1 with thanks. _

**Chapter Three – Taboos and Other Animals**

"See," said Sam bitterly, "that's why I didn't want to say anything. It's not the gay or bisexual thing that's not normal. It's that I have incestuous fantasies about my big brother. I'm sick in the head or something. And now I've ruined everything."

He turned back to the window.

Silence hung oppressively for several minutes, like dusty tapestry drapes muffling the room, before Dean asked, "Who was the guy?"

"The guy?"

"The guy you slept with after Jess?"

"Dude, did you hear what I said?"

"I heard. Now I'm processing. The guy?" Dean's voice and his expression were devoid of emotion.

Sam sighed and turned his head a little to address the empty space in the middle of the room. "You remember that haunting in Edmond, Oklahoma?"

"The clapperboard school? Yeah sure I remember, we were there nearly a week before we found the schoolmistress' body."

"There was a guy working in the _Subway_ opposite."

"Yeah, I joked the guy must like you 'cause we got more filling if you went in to get lunch than if I went in. Oh, right. … He _did_ like you."

"Um, yeah, a few times."

Dean started laughing.

"Dean? You okay?"

"I missed 'okay' several intersections back, but, I remember now, I actually said that I thought the guy had the hots for you and you deadpanned back, '_you're dreaming, dude'_. Ha, I was right!"

"Yeah, he was nice too. I liked him," Sam said simply, looking back out of the window.

"I'm guessing you went back to see him when I was out sampling the female delights of the local bars? When I thought you were in research mode?"

"Yeah. Wasn't the sort of research I wanted to share."

"I get that now!" Dean guffawed. "Christ, Sammy, why didn't you say anything, um, I mean, about you liking guys. Couldn't you trust me?"

"I couldn't trust _me_, Dean. Don't you get it? I didn't dare open that box in front of you, Dean, because – well, look where that's got me? I promised myself I wouldn't tell you my dirty little secret, not even under torture. I knew that if I once lifted the lid on that whole 'I'm bisexual' box, I'd spill everything. And now that's exactly what's happened."

"So I'm your 'dirty little secret'? That doesn't sound right." Dean stood up but didn't move away from the sofa.

"What else would you call it, Dean? Every human society has a taboo about this. It's wrong."

"That's odd. I remember you saying that nothing was wrong, or right, a few minutes ago. I thought that … hang on, I can remember this: it's Shakespeare, a _playwright_, I believe, and he said, I have it on_ good_ authority," Dean said pointedly, "that: '_There is nothing either good or bad but thinking makes it so_'. I got that right?"

"Yeah, but Dean, this, this is incest," Sam hissed the word contemptuously, "this is taboo in every culture …"

"Pfft! So was being gay not long ago, and still is in many places, sadly. So was women working outside the home. I'm not saying there aren't good reasons behind _some_ taboos. But it seems to me that the reasons get forgotten and then you just get blind prejudice."

"You're okay with this?" Sam sounded outraged.

"Didn't say that, dude. I won't lie to you; this is a bit 'out there' even for us." Dean scrubbed his hands through his hair, before continuing, "Okay, look, we both know that evolution wants to ensure the survival of the species. Having kids with your immediate family members weakens the gene pool and puts the survival of the entire species at risk. Hence the taboos. I get that, Sam. I watch the Discovery Channel.

"I also know that same-sex screwing doesn't produce offspring, which also won't help species survival. So I see where that taboo comes from. But, with 6 or 7 billion souls already rubbing shoulders on this little planet of ours, perhaps more people ought to be giving same-sex relationships a try out, rather than deny that they're gay and force themselves to live straight lives when they're not really that way inclined.

"And then there's the whole generational power imbalance abuse thing. You know, father's forcing their attentions on their children. Gross, man. What?" Dean noticed Sam looking at him strangely. "I watch Oprah too!" he explained, shrugging.

"So, Sammy," Dean continued, "I get that there are good reasons for society to get all hot under the collar about stuff like this in, you know, evolutionary terms, but none of that applies here."

"Okay, Dean, I gotta ask, what the hell is wrong with you?" Sam had his back to the window now, standing facing Dean, his stance almost pugilistic.

"What? There's nothing wrong with me. Or with you. I thought I was being real rational and understanding."

"But why, Dean? Why are you being 'understanding'? Why aren't you shouting at me, telling me to get the hell out and never contact you again?"

"Um, how about: Because you're my brother?"

"That's it? It's that simple for you?"

"Simple? Are you kidding me, Sam? This isn't simple. I hate that you're in this situation, but me wishing things were different won't make it so. I'm trying my best to be supportive here. I'm your big brother and I want to be there for you. That's what I do. It's why I exist, Sammy."

Dean sat back down on the sofa, looking anywhere but at Sam.

"But, Dean, what I've told you … how I feel…about you …."

"What do you want me to say, Sam? Get grossed out? You're my brother, you're the best person I know, so why would I feel like that about you? Why would I want to make you feel worse over this?

"Or do you want that I should ignore everything you said? Sorry, can't un-ring that particular bell. And I wouldn't want to. I'm glad you told me. Just wish you'd told me this before you went to Stanford."

"I thought I could get over it, Dean. I thought maybe it was a phase I was going through. I tried sleeping around, guys, girls, just about anyone and everyone, to show me I was wrong, confused, whatever. So I could kill this part of me.

"I thought it was because of our upbringing, you know, having to rely on each other all the time, Dad hardly ever around, you standing in for him and for Mom, us not staying anywhere long enough to make friends, and if we did get friendly with anyone at school we couldn't bring them home, or we might let slip about Dad's line of work.

"At Stanford I had fun, sure, but I missed you, Dean. I missed you so much. I didn't think I'd ever see you again – but I thought that would be for the best anyway. I'd just have to suck it up and get on with life without you. It hurt, Dean, but I couldn't see another way. Then me and Jess clicked and I thought, maybe I could forget about that other part of me.

"I loved Jess, dude, I really did. And I was planning on proposing to her, settling down – hell, I even thought about kids. But there was an ache. I can't describe it Dean, but it was like part of my soul was missing. And I knew it always would be, because I needed you to make me whole.

"And, god, I know I'm sounding like a bad chick flick right now, but I don't know how else to explain all this. And when Dad went missing and you came to get me, I, well, I thought I owed it to you to help. Not to Dad. But you; I owed _you_.

"I knew it would be awkward being so close to you, day in, day out, and it was. But it was also …kinda wonderful, I guess. And that guy in Edmond, it was nice to chat with someone, and the sex was really hot …"

"TMI, dude, TMI!" Dean said covering his ears with his hands theatrically.

"Dean, I've just told you that I want to have sex with you, my own brother, and you've regaled me often enough with your hetro exploits so, you wanna get some perspective here?"

"Sorry, dude. So that Edmond guy was, um, nice?"

"Seb? Yeah, he was great. But he was a poor substitute. All of them have been poor substitutes. Sorry, Dean. Just being honest."

"Yeah, I get that. Sorry you've had to go through all this."

"So what happens now? Do you want me to leave?"

"No. I want you to sit down though, cause you're kinda menacing standing there. Plus I'm gonna get a crick in my neck looking up at you."

Sam sat down at the opposite end of the sofa to Dean and leant back.

"Shit, I'm sorry, Dean," he said looking at the ceiling, "I've fucked everything up. Should have kept my mouth shut. I don't what I was thinking. I'm so sorry, dude."

"Like I said, Sam, I'm glad you told me. Wish I'd known before this, but I get why you didn't say anything."

"But it changes everything, right? We can't be together now. I mean, go hunting together." Sam looked across and Dean saw a scared little boy looking at him.

"Hey, Sammy, it'll be okay. No reason why we can't just be all 'business as usual'."

"Yeah, right! How awkward will that be?" Sam put his hands up to his shoulders at the base of his neck and began kneading the tight muscles there.

"You okay, Sam?"

"Been fighting a headache since we ganked the M'kelebazantu. Shouldn't have had the beers."

"Jeez, you should've said."

Dean jumped up and grabbed a small plastic bag and a t-shirt from his duffel bag. From the ice box in the top of the fridge he emptied some ice cubes into the plastic bag, wrapped his t-shirt round it, and bought the package back to Sam.

"Turn round, Sam."

Sam shifted round so that his back was towards Dean, dipping his head slightly. Dean knelt up on the sofa and held the chilled bag against Sam's neck at the base of his skull, as he'd done many times before when Sam was a teenager.

"Thanks," Sam murmured as he went to hold the bag in place himself.

"I got it, Sammy. You just relax. D'you want any Tylenol?"

"No, I'll be okay."

The pair stayed statue-still for a few moments, then Sam tried to grab the bag again.

"No," Dean said firmly, quietly, taking the bag away. "I've got this. Take your top off – your shirt's getting damp from the ice. Now lay down and stretch out."

Sam did as he was told, pulling his t-shirt over his head, laying out face down on the sofa, bending his right arm at the elbow and putting his crumpled up shirt over his forearm to rest his head on. Once he was settled, Dean replaced the homemade ice pack, knelt at his side and began kneading the taut muscles at the top of Sam's shoulders.

"Dean, you don't need to …"

Dean bought his mouth down close to Sam's ear. "I thought I told you to relax," he murmured.

"But…"

"Let me do this for you, Sam," Dean whispered, manoeuvring himself into a more comfortable position. He continued massaging Sam's neck and shoulders, moving down the tops of his arms and across his broad back.

The brothers fell silent as they each pondered what had just happened. Both felt that Sam's revelation should be driving them apart, yet by sharing this secret they seemed to be closer than ever.

And how did that all fit with the very physical closeness that they were experiencing now? They had both tended each other's wounds over the years and when Sam had been younger Dean had eased his headaches away just like this. Only, not quite like this; this felt more … intimate. It was a confusing development, but not unwanted particularly. Just perplexing.

As Dean heard his brother's breathing even out and slow, he began to lighten his touch, not so much massaging Sam's back as stroking it. Caressing it maybe.

Then, when he was certain that Sam had fallen asleep, Dean rose and pulled down a colourful woven throw from the back of the sofa to cover Sam. Happy that Sam was tucked in, he silently collected the empty bottles and pizza boxes, leaving them neatly on the kitchenette countertop. Then he retrieved the bottle of Tylenol from their first aid kit, filled a glass with water, and set them down on the 'seen better days' side table which he pulled round to the front of the sofa so that both were in easy reach of his brother.

After a quick trip to the bathroom, Dean undressed down to his boxers and was about to get into bed when he found himself staring down at Sam on the sofa. He watched Sam's back rising and falling for some minutes while he tried to make sense of everything that had happened that evening.


	4. Chapter 4

**But thinking makes it so Ch4**

**Chapter Four – The Nature of Reality**

Watching Sam sleep, listening to his rhythmic breathing, Dean knew he ought to be more wigged out by his brother's confession. Oh, not because of any moral imperative, any social norms that he felt obliged to follow – he was a Winchester after all – but because effectively his brother wanted to have a sexual relationship with him. That was the bottom line here, no pun intended. It had been wholly unexpected and had the potential to derail their recently re-acquired friendship. 'Awkward' didn't even begin to cover it.

It wasn't about the 'brothers' issue particularly; that was something others might have a problem with, and somehow Dean found himself not really caring about that aspect. Their chance of a 'normal' family life, where such things would have carried their customary weight, had been stolen from them the night a four-year-old Dean vowed to protect his baby brother.

On that night a demon had ripped their family apart. That hadn't been fair; it hadn't been right or 'normal'. Anything that fell out from that was down to the demon, not the Winchesters. And it seemed to Dean that, when measured against the wrongs done to them that night and since, society ought to cut them a little slack. In fact, he felt almost 'entitled' to some pay-back for all the crap heaped on him and his family.

To Dean, Sam wanting to sleep with him was not so much a problem about him being his brother, it was more that they were co-workers in a deadly enterprise.

Dean figured that if you had a non-related hetero couple working together and one suddenly admits to sexually desiring the other, there would be tension there too. That was his concern. That Sam would have to work alongside him, knowing that his desire for Dean was not reciprocated. That would mess up most partnerships, and Dean knew that he needed his relationship with his brother to be bomb-proof. Their lives depended on their strong bond; on their ability to work together, to trust one another, interpret body language, to anticipate their next move, to know what the other was thinking. Well, Dean had singularly failed at that!

How could he have been so blind? Not even to notice that Sam had been interested in that guy from Edmond. What was his name? Seb? And looking at Sam asleep now, Dean could see how Seb must have thought all his Christmases had come at once when Sam walked in to order a Ranch Melt, an Oven Roasted Chicken and two sodas.

Dean stopped himself. Where the hell did that thought come from? Okay, he must be tired, real tired. Been a long day in more ways than just dispatching that M'ukelele beast. Yeah, his bed was calling.

But though he really ought to get some sleep himself, he hesitated to turn away from Sam as if he didn't want to leave his brother alone. He had a sudden urge to comb his fingers through Sam's riotous hair and tell him softly that everything would be alright, that Dean would make everything alright for him, like he always did. But something about reaching out to touch Sam seemed, unexpectedly, too compelling for Dean to feel wholly comfortable with the thought. He had a brief mental image of his hand gently gripping the back of Sam's head to turn his face towards him, so that he could kiss his worries away. Kiss Dean's worries away too.

Dean wrenched his eyes from the soft brown strands that fringed the lazy slope of his brother's shoulder and spun on his heels, telling himself forcefully that he needed to get some sleep, and _now_, dammit!

Leaving the nightstand lamp switched on so Sam would be able to see the tablets and water when he woke, Dean clambered into his bed and closed his eyes with a sigh.

But sleep was more elusive than the Mountain Gorilla from the M'kelebazantu's old stomping ground. He turned on his side to face the wall, away from the dim light, but despite giving himself a stern talking to, he still found his mind replaying the events of that evening.

On the one hand, Dean was amazed at Sam's revelation. On the other, he was strangely accustomed to it already. Had he known? Had he seen something in Sam's demeanour, in his eyes? If not about the incest issue, and Dean was pretty sure he'd been clueless about that, then about Sam being bi-sexual? Perhaps, he'd picked up on the undercurrent between his brother and Seb?

No. He couldn't really remember what Seb had looked like, and if he'd detected any mutual attraction between Sam and this guy, he would surely have also made at least a subconscious note of Seb's appearance. He'd picked up on Seb's interest in Sam, but not the other way round. And that right there would have been perfect ammunition for months of jokes and innuendo, which Dean would have leveraged to the maximum if he'd cottoned on.

So how did he feel about all this? As far as Sam liking both men and women, well, that was a non-issue to Dean. Just the same as if Sam had told him he liked the colours pink and orange. Not colours Dean would want to trick out his Babe in, but each to his own. Liking a particular colour isn't something you have any control over. It's not a conscious choice, any more than what sort of music you like to listen to. Although if Sam suddenly wanted to play some teen band in the car or, god forbid, that type of jazz where all the musicians are playing something different and the vocalist has forgotten the lyrics and has started filling in with random noises, then Sam could damn well find his own way to the next hunt.

So, okay, Dean had established it wasn't Sam's fault that he felt like this. And part of him had to admit that he did feel a certain amount of pride that someone of Sam's undoubted good looks, intellect, wicked fighting skills and boyish charms found him attractive.

Obviously, Dean knew himself to be drop-dead gorgeous, like he knew that night followed day, but it was always good for one's self-esteem when someone else confirmed it.

But shouldn't it worry him that it was his little brother telling him this? Dean mulled this over.

If Sam had come to him before he went to Stanford, then yes, he would have worried. Sam had been right earlier; Dean had practically been Sam's mom and dad growing up. A close attachment might become confused in that situation, particularly as their outside contacts were limited. On reflection, he was glad that Sam hadn't mentioned anything to him then.

But, as far as Dean had understood, Sam had gone off to college to get rid of these feelings. He'd played the field, girls and guys, and he'd been in a relationship with Jess where marriage and kids had been on the cards. So, not a fling. Sam had said he had loved Jess. Actually, Dean had seen that for himself, in Sam's eyes before she died, and in Sam's grief after her death.

So, that left the elephant in the room: sex.

Dean had 'experimented' with guy-sex when he was younger; a sort of 'don't knock it 'til you've tried it' attitude, and partly out of a sort of narcissism that just had to prove that he could pull anyone, guys included. And, of course, he could pull the guys too. And did. Fairly frequently at one point in his life.

On the whole, he didn't feel as comfortable with guys as he did with girls. For one thing, some of the guys he'd hooked up with had wanted to be in charge, in control, sometimes trying to top from the bottom.

One guy had told him he was too pretty to be on top. Dean showed him who was in charge sure enough and was damn lucky not to have found himself in jail as a result. And Dean knew that, had it not been for the gay label, the guy would certainly have pressed charges.

So he had concluded that he could avoid all this by sticking with women and he hadn't been disappointed. In fact, even if he did find his companion of the night was flexing her muscles, so to speak, taking the reins, he actually found it refreshing now, because, at the end of the day, he was still the guy.

Dean thought about this for a moment and concluded that he was probably a bit messed up, but then, hey, who wasn't. At least he didn't want to sleep with his brother …

Oh! 'N_ot nice, Dean'_, he rebuked himself. That was a cheap shot.

Sam has done nothing wrong and this isn't how he wanted his love life to turn out. Poor fuck. This has been really hard on him. He tried to deal, found a girl he could be happy with and then some yellow-eyed mofo goes postal on her. Christ, it's a wonder Sam isn't a babbling wreck.

No, Dean's proud of his little brother. Proud of how he got into Stanford, stood up to their Dad, stepped away from the destiny Dad had mapped out for him, made a new life, handled Jess' death, coped with the whole 'I love my brother' crap. Yeah, real proud!

Dean must have dozed off for a while because he suddenly became aware that he could hear movement.

"You okay Sam? He called out softly.

"Yeah, sorry, didn't mean to wake you," Sam whispered back.

"You didn't," he lied, "I haven't been able to get to sleep with all this, um, business running around in my head."

"Sorry, Dean. I …"

"No, 's okay, dude," Dean said quickly. "You take any Tylenol?"

"Yeah thanks. I feel a little better now anyway, but thought it might help to get ahead of the hangover."

"Smart move," Dean said approvingly, a smile evident in his voice.

"And Dean, thanks for helping with my headache earlier and … you know, everything else."

"It's what I do, Jackass."

"Jerk!"

"Get to bed. I don't want Grumpy riding shotgun tomorrow."

"Yeah, yeah," Sam grumbled light-heartedly as he made his way across to his bed in the feeble light.

As Sam got near the nightstand, Dean turned to face him, taking in the fact that Sam too had now stripped to just his boxers.

"Sam?"

"Mmm?"

"Not saying I'm totally down with all this, well, you know… But, been thinking. So, um, if you want some company … I mean, you don't have to sleep alone. Not if you don't want to. Sleep, alone, I mean."

Sam had turned and was staring at Dean like he'd just transformed into a M'kelebazantu right there in front of him.

"Don't look at me like that, Sammy! Just thought, after everything, you wouldn't want to, you know, be on your own."

"Are you serious, Dean? You're asking if I want to, um, what? Join you?" Sam sat on the edge of his bed looking across at Dean, his brow furrowed.

"If you want. Thought you might like the company. No pressure. Just if you want."

"And you're happy with this?"

"If you're gonna make a big song and dance about it, maybe not," Dean grumbled petulantly.

"I'm sorry, Dean, it's just that I was convinced you would tell me never to darken your door again, not invite me for a sleepover." Sam cracked a small, almost timid, smile.

"I'm kind-hearted is all," Dean mumbled. "Now, d'you wanna get your arse over here?" He held up the covers.

"Dean, I dunno …"

"Dammit, Sam, I'm not gonna ask again!" Green eyes stared, unblinking, almost challenging.

Sam grinned and, though he was still frowning a little, he rose and crossed the small gap between the beds to where Dean was lying.

"You sure?" he whispered.

"Oh, you're such a girl. Get in."

Sam climbed under the covers as Dean scooted back to give him room. Dean thought this would be awkward. He should feel uncomfortable, shouldn't he? But he didn't. He felt protective of his brother. He wanted to make things better for him. Like he always had.

"Your headache still there?" he whispered to Sam.

"Mostly gone, but, yeah, a bit."

"Turn the other way," Dean instructed softly.

As soon as Sam was facing away from him, both now laying on their sides, Dean bought a hand up to begin to slowly massage Sam's tense neck muscles.

"Relax, man, your neck's really tight," he murmured in Sam's ear.

After a few moments, Dean whispered again, "C'mon Sammy quit holding all that tension. Relax a bit."

Sam shifted a little and Dean heard him draw in a deep breath before he asked, "Um, Dean, can you do me a favour?"

"Whazat?"

"Don't, um, don't whisper in my ear."

"Sorry, dude, didn't seem appropriate to shout at you, at whatever o'clock in the morning it is. Fussy much?"

"It's not the whispering. It's just …"

When it didn't seem like Sam was going to say anything more, Dean breathed against his skin, "It's just what?"

"Your mouth, close to my ear. Your breath on my neck. Dean, it's, um … well, it feels good. Too good, if you know what I mean?"

"Seriously? Just me breathing near your ear?"

"Oh yeah!"

"What, like this?" Dean leant forward and blew gently across Sam's neck and the bottom of his ear.

"Don't Dean, don't, okay?" Sam's voice was hoarse and Dean couldn't help smirking.

"Aw, don't you like it," Dean whispered up close to his brother's ear, "when I do this?" He blew down Sam's neck to the top of his shoulder.

This time his brother shuddered, before mumbling, "Yeah, I like it. Too much."

"That's a problem?" Dean asked huskily, knowing full well that it was, and why.

"Yeah, it's a problem. A big one," Sam replied gruffly.

"Perhaps I can help with that?" Dean murmured, his lips brushing against Sam's skin.

"What the fuck, Dean? Sam growled threateningly. "Back off if you don't want to find out just how much I like what you're doing."

"Maybe I do want to find out."

"Don't tease, Dean, please. All this is bad enough without you making a joke out of my feelings," Sam's voice hitched.

"'M not teasing, Sammy," Dean muttered, cutting short the massage to run his hand down Sam's arm.

"What are you doing?" Sam asked, making it sound like a warning.

"What d'you think, Sammy? You got it to _my_ bed. What did you think would happen?"

"Dean? I don't understand. You can't be thinking …?"

"Hey!" Dean grumbled softly, "How about I don't tell you what to think and you don't tell me? Yeah?"

"Why, Dean? Why would you …?" Sam's voice was almost inaudible.

"Don't you get it, Sam? There's only one job I have in the world," Dean explained, his voice low and urgent, "and that job is to take care of you. Hunting is just a hobby, compared. Whatever you need, Sammy, if it's in my power, you have it. I just need to know that you're happy. That's all I need. 'S'all I've ever needed."

_A/N: Only one more chapter. _ ;)


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five – One Job in the World**

"Dean you can't be thinking …." Dean heard the note of panic in his brother's voice.

"Dunno how far I wanna take this, Sammy. But it's not like I haven't been with a guy before," Dean confessed, smiling when he heard Sam's stammered response.

"Y-you … you've … b-but …"

"What can I say, Sammy. I've been sexually active since I was 13, bound to have tried out a few things over the years. Seems we both had secrets."

Dean moved closer, pushing his bare chest flat against Sam's bare back. He tugged at the lobe of Sam's ear with his teeth, darting his tongue out to lick it. Then, as he released the ear, he blew gently across the wetness he'd left.

Sam bucked.

"Like that, did you, Sammy?" Dean purred smugly.

"Mmm, yeah. But Dean, you need to stop before we both do something we'll regr …"

"Don't!" Dean cut him off gruffly. "Don't say it. No regrets here. Not when we're together. And we'll always be together, won't we, Sammy?"

Sam nodded, as if, maybe, he was uncomfortable with saying the word that Dean would take as a promise.

"Sammy? Please. I need to hear you say it," Dean's voice was barely audible as he spoke into Sam's sensitive skin.

"I … this … we," Sam tried throatily.

"I need to hear that you'll never leave me, Sam. Couldn't bear if you left me again. Stay with me, Sammy."

"Won't leave, Dean," Sam croaked, voice heavy with emotion, "only if you tell me to."

"Like that would ever happen," Dean scoffed softly as he gave Sam's bicep a fond squeeze.

Sam shuddered.

"Look, Sam, you need to know that you're in charge here. You want something you gotta tell me. You want me to stop, I will. You have to be comfortable with this. I don't want to add to that weight you carry around on these impressive shoulders."

Dean wafted a hand over the top of Sam's right shoulder. Then he pressed his lips to the skin to kiss where the shoulder swept up into his neck.

"Tell me I'm not dreaming, that this is real, that you still want me in your life," Sam implored, sounding to Dean as though he might actually start crying. Dean was reminded of the many times when he had comforted a younger, tearful Sam after some skinned knee, or bust-up with their father, or some other childhood upset.

"It's real, Sammy, no dream," Dean breathed, adding wistfully, "and I _always_ want you in my life. Don't you get that? There is no _me_ without you." He squeezed his brother's arm again before hissing, "Now turn round."

"No," it came out as more of a guttural sound than an actual word, but Dean understood.

"Something you don't want me to see?" Dean teased gently as he began to stroke his brother's arm again, taking his hand lower with every slow, drawn out caress.

"Dean, you don't want to do this," Sam pleaded.

"'S my choice and yeah, I do. If you don't wanna do this, then I stop. But you don't get to tell me what I want to do, okay?" Dean growled quietly in Sam's ear. "Now, you want I should continue?" He planted another kiss on his brother's neck.

Sam nodded briefly.

But Dean needed to check and, as his fingers began to draw abstract patterns on Sam's wrist, he asked softly, "You sure?" which, after a beat, elicited another small nod.

"Need to hear you, Sammy," Dean insisted, knowing he was begging now.

"Yes," Sam murmured, "Dean. Please."

"Okay," Dean let out a breath he didn't know he had been holding and murmured, "We'll go slow, but if you want me to do anything different, do anything else, just say. Anytime, _anytime_, you want me to stop, you tell me. I'll stop. That okay?"

Sam nodded mutely again, but then Dean heard a soft, "Yes," and he smiled his gratitude and understanding against Sam's back.

Dean moved his hand from Sam's arm to his waist and pressed his palm flat against Sam's stomach. He felt Sam tense up and heard him catch his breath.

"Relax, Sammy," Dean breathed as he began to move his hand in gentle circles on Sam's flat belly. He kept his caresses slow and light at first, becoming firmer as he gradually moved his hand downwards. Hooking under the elasticated waistband of his brother's shorts, Dean felt something warm and firm bump his hand.

"Mmm, you're pleased to see me, I can tell," Dean said, unable to keep the amusement, and possibly pride, from his voice or the smirk off his lips.

"You're such a jerk," his younger brother whined, trying to sound mildly irritated in what Dean thought was an effort to cover for the embarrassment he was probably feeling. He didn't want Sam to feel anything but good about this.

"You say something, Sammy," Dean asked, his smirk now a full blown grin, "something about being a jerk?" and with that Dean quickly closed his hand around the base of his brother's cock squeezing and tugging gently just once.

Sam jumped and Dean chuckled as he whispered, "Dude, relax will you? Gonna make you feel so good."

Dean's brazen fingertips scraped Sam lightly, stuttering at first, but soon settling into a soft, slothful stroking.

"Oh g-god, D-Dean," Sam ground out.

Dean shushed him softly, his fingers soon forgoing their teasing vellication, forming an insolent fist, commanding, but still gentle and indolent. He felt Sam slump against him, a bare increment away from surrendering the tension held in his body.

Dean's touch now became transforming, his grip tightened and released rhythmically, repetitively, spreading silky pre-cum to lubricate the satin-soft skin as his thumb ran across the slit.

He bought his free hand up to stroke Sam's forehead and felt creases marring his brother's brow. He frowned too for a moment.

Not stilling his right hand, he eased Sam's head back with his left, whispering, "Lean back on me, Sammy. Relax. Don't think, just feel. Lose yourself in the feeling. I got you. I've always got you."

As Sam's head tipped back onto his brother's shoulder, Dean felt a pang of … something… shoot through him, head to toe like a lightning bolt. Then it seemed to rebound into his chest, filling him up so he felt like he was about to burst. It nearly derailed his rhythm but he was experienced in putting his own feelings to one side when it came to Sam.

Dean puzzled for the briefest moment. It was a beautifully sharp sting of … what was it? Love? Yes, Dean supposed, he was actually feeling the pointy end of love. Like a stake to a vampire's heart, its kiss was transmuting and irrevocable.

This must be what Sam had prattled on about earlier when he had said he pitied Dean for not knowing what love truly was. Well, now he knew and he was both euphoric and humbled by it. He marvelled at the feeling, immersing himself in it; rejoicing in it.

As his closed hand clutched compulsively around his brother, comprehension dawned. He was no longer conflicted. Contentment encompassed Dean, even as passion was combusting inside him. He had proof now that he had found his vocation, his calling.

He moved his hand faster, more fervently, seeking fulfilment by gifting it.

He began to murmur in Sam's ear, "Sammy, I love you. So proud of you, your achievements, the person you've become. So damn proud. And you're so handsome, so fucking beautiful. So fucking hot. And I love that my whispers made you hard. Come for me, Sammy. Let me feel you come."

Sam was groaning softly now, his head lolling back and sweat pricking through his skin to coat him with a fine sheen. Then he reached out his right hand to touch Dean's forearm. Dean was about to tell him to cut it out, that he wasn't finished yet, didn't want to stop, but then he realised Sam wasn't stopping him but speeding him up by stroking down from his elbow to his wrist in ever faster and more erratic movements.

Dean matched the pace, cherishing the feel of his brother's hand on his arm as much as he relished the feel of Sam's cock in his own hand.

"Feels so good, Sammy," Dean whispered.

But then Sam was trying to reach around Dean's arm, to reach round his own body, twisting to try to get his hand between them.

"No, Sammy," Dean ordered hoarsely, "not now. This is about you. Let me do this."

Sam moaned something incoherent and Dean mumbled back, "Later, I promise. I'll be waiting," heart swelling as his brother gripped his arm again.

Dean thrust his hips forward, pushing his own hardness against Sam's buttock, demonstrating just how turned on he was by what they were doing. Sam bucked, hard, so that Dean had to tighten his grip to keep his rhythm. He worked his hand faster still and started moving against his brother's back, pushing his erection against him, seeking more pressure but not wanting to succumb to his own pleasure until he had satisfied Sam.

Their two bodies were moving as one now, Dean gyrating, pressing forward, Sam grinding, pushing back, hands mirroring the movement of hands.

Then Dean felt fingers dig into his flesh as his brother's body went rigid for a brief moment before Sam yelped his name as his climax hit. He sent warm threads of cum over his belly, his shorts, and Dean's hand, as forceful as any evulsion; as cleansing as any catharsis; as elating as a lover's declaration.

And suddenly Dean was crying out Sam's name and bucking against his back as he too spilt warmth and stickiness against his brother.

A few minutes passed while the brother's, still cuddled close, caught their breath and their brains eased back to full consciousness.

"Dean?"

"Mmm?" Dean mumbled as he tried to calm his breathing, his forehead resting on Sam's shoulder.

"You okay?" Sam asked quietly, as he hesitantly began to caress his brother's arm again.

"Dammit, Sammy," Dean grumbled back, but then, as he felt Sam tense up and still his hand, he continued quickly, "haven't come in my shorts that hard since, well, since forever."

"You're not mad?" Sam asked in a small, scared-sounding voice.

"Mad? Only at me for getting carried away like some hormonal teenager." He felt Sam relax a little and begin to stroke his arm again. "Sammy, you okay with this?"

"You?"

"Dude, I just told you I came in my pants, hard. What about you? Are you okay with all this?"

"Yeah, I guess," Sam mumbled.

"Oh, that's fucking brilliant, that is. I've just given the most awesome fucking hand-job of my life and he just says, 'I guess'.

"Awesome?"

"Dude, you came in my hand with my name on your lips and that made me shoot my load. That not awesome in your book?" Dean sounded pissed off. "Anyway, why am I still talking to your back? Turn around."

"Yeah, okay, but first I gotta get these shorts off," Sam said, turning on his back and drawing his legs up as he shimmied out of his boxers. Dean did the same and they used their messy underwear to wipe themselves before throwing the balled up shorts onto the floor.

Dean pulled Sam round to face him, smiling. "Sammy, I'm really okay with this. I need you to believe me here, yeah?"

"Yeah, I hear what you're telling me." Sam shrugged.

"But? There's always a 'but' with you isn't there Sammy?" Dean tried to sound stern but he was grinning too much to be convincing.

"This is a big thing, Dean, what we've just done."

"Yep, and give me a little time and we'll do something else … big."

"Dean, can you be serious for a moment?" Sam pleaded.

"Um, after that performance? Not a chance! Sam, will you quit worrying. I've just really enjoyed myself, and I _know_ you did too. We're not hurting anyone and I intend not to hurt anyone again when I've had a rest, if you get my drift." Dean waggled his eyebrows and Sam burst out laughing.

"You're such an idiot, Dean," Sam admonished, making it sound like the warmest term of endearment.

"What can I say? You must bring that out in me."

Sam propped himself on his elbow and looked intently, but impassively, at Dean, studying his face.

"Sammy?" Dean muttered nervously.

Breaking out into a shy, almost coy, smile Sam bought a finger up to trace the edges of the stubble on Dean's face.

"Sammy?" Dean asked again, but this time there was just curiosity in his voice.

"I want you to do something for me, Dean," Sam said huskily.

Dean cranked an eyebrow.

Sam drew in a breath before continuing, "Dean, I want you to kiss me."

And then Dean was leaning up, pushing Sam back into the pillow, bringing his mouth down, swiping his tongue across Sam's lips, demanding entry, which Sam gave instantly. Lips pressed, tongues probed, hearts pounded, until Dean pulled away, panting. And grinning stupidly.

Dean looked down at his brother with wonder as he processed his thoughts. He knew that it was his job to look after Sam, but here, in some rundown motel, in some forgettable hick town, in the small hours of the morning, he understood that Sam was caring for him too. And it felt right.

"I love you, Sam. I love you in every sense of that word and then some. We'll make this work. Life is short, harsh and brutal; ours more than most, I guess. So I don't give a flying fuck what anyone else thinks. You okay to give this a go?"

Sam nodded and murmured, "I love you too, Dean. So much," and a single tear fell from the corner of his eye.

"Hey, hey, Sammy. No tears. My fault I know, I was turning this into a chick flick moment. But in my defence, I must've learnt that from you. Okay, how about we get some sleep now, and then maybe we can shower together in the morning?"

Sam beamed up at him, "Yeah, sounds like a plan."

The brothers hunkered down under the covers and Dean realised that he felt immeasurably comfortable in Sam's arms. He found himself relishing their closeness and rejoicing in the promise of their shared future.

"Um, Dean," Sam whispered sleepily, "thanks. For this – for everything."

"It's just what I do, Sammy," Dean murmured back, his lips moving against Sam's chest, "I take care of my little brother."

~ FIN ~


End file.
